Goldilocks redux
by homeric
Summary: A different take on the fairytale. A Gawain oneshot.


**Disclaimer: Sadly Gawain does not belong to me.**

**None of my "fairytale" stories have anything to do with anything else I've written by the way - probably should have pointed that out before, sorry.**

**For Lady Catriona-Arre - I keep promising you a Gawain fic so here you go, hope you like it!**

Gawain shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him, trying to escape the chill wind that seemed to penetrate him to his very bones. It didn't do much good - the material was soaked and heavy from the unrelenting rain, and for a moment he considered before discarding the idea of abandoning the accursed garment altogether. Looking around, he sighed heavily. Who knew that Britain was host to so many trees? And why in the name of the Gods did they all look exactly the same? He had been walking for at least an hour and was still yet to come across anything that looked remotely familiar. Cursing Britain, the Romans, the Woads and eventually himself, he slumped against a huge oak tree that provided a little shelter from the decidedly hostile weather.

It was his own fault, he thought ruefully. Megan, the pretty maid who lived at the edge of the forest, had made no secret of her attraction to him, but he really should have had more sense than to sneak off like a lovelorn stable boy to visit her. Curvaceous and fair of face, Megan was certainly an enticing proposition, but to go out at night when he knew full well that Woads were active in these parts was true stupidity. Vanora could take the blame for this sorry situation, he decided grumpily. If her ale hadn't been so strong he wouldn't have set off alone, and would even now be tucked up in his quarters instead of shivering in the forest with no clue as to where he was. The two Woads that had attacked him had seemed almost startled to see one of the famed Samartian knights alone, but seizing the opportunity they had dragged him off his horse before he had time to evade them. Even with his senses dulled from alcohol he had fought them off, dispatching one swiftly and chasing the other through the trees before felling him with a well timed throw of his axe. He could not risk the man finding reinforcements before he could return home; that was a lesson he had learnt from Tristan when he was still a skinny twelve year old. Unfortunately the lessons the scout had given regarding tracking had not taken so well, and the path he had left remained stubbornly elusive, as did his traitorous horse who had obviously decided that the weather was far too nasty to hang around in and had trotted off back home from the looks of things. Gawain brushed a damp snarl of hair from his face and contented himself with the knowledge that the bloody animal's arrival would alert his brothers to his plight, but he did not relish explaining himself to Arthur. The big Roman was used to his second in command's womanising ways, but he wouldn't welcome such behaviour from the rest of his men. Was he turning into Lancelot? Gawain wondered, shuddering at the thought. From now on he would limit himself to Vanora's serving girls, he decided. Unless the girl was exceptionally pretty and did not live in the middle of nowhere, he amended after a moment.

Getting to his feet, he stamped his feet to get some feeling back into them and set off once again. At least when he was walking he managed to generate a little heat, and from the faint silver smudge of the moon that gleamed through the clouds, he thought that he was heading in the approximate direction of Hadrian's wall. Any sort of track or path failed to appear, but after a few minutes of negotiating the forest, a familiar scent made Gawain pause and look around warily. Someone was cooking nearby; rabbit probably, although it could be venison. His stomach growled at the thought, and he narrowed his eyes when the faint flicker of firelight revealed itself through the trees. _Could be Woads, _he thought warily, dropping his hand to his sword, but Woads were far from being the only inhabitants of the forest. Trackers, traders, hunters: all made use of the abundant game and herbs that the forest provided, finding no threat by the Woads as though by some unspoken pact. If the people at the fire were friend not foe, then he could get directions and perhaps be home before the whole fort was alerted to his absence. _Only one way to find out,_ he inwardly sighed, making his way towards the faint light.

He approached warily, but relaxed his caution when he realised that the campsite was deserted. The fire was dying down, succumbing to the rain, although it was protected somewhat by a rather ingenious shelter made of several dampened branches. A bigger shelter had been assembled nearby, a tangle of blankets making it clear that this was an encampment of sorts. Gawain shrugged and made his way towards the fire. The remains of a meal lay near the blaze, and from the faint warmth of the cooked rabbit that had been torn onto a wooden plate, it had not been abandoned long. Slightly guiltily, he took a piece and popped into his mouth, stifling a groan of pleasure. The meat was tender and delicious, and before he knew it, his hunger had over-ridden his manners and the plate was empty. Turning his back to the rain that had suddenly increased, he eyed the shelter thoughtfully. Surely there was no harm in getting out of the rain? Whoever had vacated the campsite would not begrudge a weary traveller a little comfort, he decided, tucking himself under the rough tangle of branches. Reaching out for one of the tangled blankets, he rubbed his hair, if not dry then less sodden, and wiped his face. The cloth was already damp, and a little more water wouldn't make much difference. Settling down, he watched the fire sizzle when the rain blew upon it, and tried to resist falling asleep.

Drifting off into a gentle doze, Gawain jerked awake at the sound of approaching voices. Although still a little way off, the dialect was unmistakable. Woads. Leaping to his feet and reaching for his sword, he slid behind the shelter. He would fight if he had to, but it was folly to do so until he knew how many he would face. Keeping his breath as shallow as he could, and trying not to make any noise, he watched as the visitors entered the campsite through a chink in the woven branches. A burly man approached the fire, his long hair matted to his face by the rain, the deerskin cloak thrown over his shoulders steaming as he rubbed his hands over the warmth. Behind him a tall woman whose slightly feral look was in no way softened by the little boy who held her hand, looked around warily and muttered something that Gawain could not make sense of.

* * *

"Someone has been here," Lyra, the Woad woman said in her native tongue. "Look." She pointed at the empty bowl by the fire and nudged her husband's shoulder. "I left meat enough for another meal."

Her husband grunted and picked up the bowl, keep eyes noting the disturbance if the forest litter that had certainly not been made by his light-footed family.

"Keep Luka close," he whispered, "whoever it was might still be around."

Lyra nodded, pulling her son to her side and reaching for the blade that rested at her side. "Hunters do you think?" she asked quietly.

The big Woad shook his head as he examined the rumpled bedding in the shelter, his face paling as he pulled a long, blond hair from one of the blankets. There was only one race whose hair was as pale as the morning light, and they were far more dangerous than any hunter or Roman.

"Saxons," he muttered to his wide-eyed wife. Grabbing the blankets and tossing them over his shoulder, he walked swiftly to his family and hoisted his son onto his back. "We head to the hills, we must warn Merlin. Make no sound."

Lyra nodded mutely, her dark eyes flashing around the campsite in terror. Keeping a white-knuckled grip on her knife, she followed her husband, and all three of them melted into the darkness.

* * *

Gawain watched the Woads leave with bewildered surprise, before a grin spread across his face. He had watched the Woad study the campsite and the admittedly obvious signs of his arrival, and when the man had plucked one of his unmistakable hairs from the blanket, he had tightened his hand around his sword and waited for battle.

Instead of searching for the interloper as he had expected, the man had looked horrified, grabbed his family and fled. Obviously his fame had spread, Gawain thought smugly. He was the only pale haired man at the fort, and given that he had killed more than his fair share of Woads, the Picts were obviously terrified of him. His weariness was suddenly forgotten, the cold ignored. He had been fighting for just ten years; still a novice in the eyes of Dagonet and Bors. Wait until he told them what had happened!

Deciding to go in the opposite direction of the fleeing family, it did not take long before Gawain stumbled upon first a faint track and then with blessed relief, the path that would take him back home. He had been walking only a few minutes when he came upon the familiar shape of his horse, who obviously torn between abandoning his master and waiting for him, had settled for wandering off and nibbling the cow parsley at the edge of the road.

"Arctus," Gawain muttered, rubbing the big chestnut's nose affectionately. "I take it back, you won't end up in Vanora's next casserole after all." Swinging into the saddle, he headed home at a brisk trot. Dawn had not yet broken, and with luck his commander would not be looking for him. Smiling as the familiar shadow of Hadrians wall came into view, he felt like laughing. To frighten off Woads with the merest suggestion of his presence? He needed a new name…. Gawain the Brave, perhaps. No, that sounded wrong. Gawain the fearsome? That was better. Gawain the fearsome. Holding his head up high, he entered the courtyard and handed his mount to a rather sleepy stable boy. Legends did not tend their own mounts, he told himself, and it was only the next morning when Arthur, informed by Jols who had indeed noticed one of the young knights missing, roared at him in front of the entire fort, that he regained some sense of humility.

**A/N Ah, Gawain had to be Goldilocks lol. Goldilocks and the three, er, Woads. Bit of an odd take on the fairytale, feedback is appreciated. Have a nice weekend everyone**.


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